fff: Hard luck on Mars.

Shorty and a late one at that.

———————————————-

Where do you go when you’re fired? I mean if you are on Earth you can just go get another job at a different company, but Mars? It ain’t like there too many opportunities for reasonable employment if you ain’t working for one of the big orgs.

You end up a scrub…

Hold on a second will ya buddy, here comes a fatcat bureaucrat.

Hey gov’ner, you got any spare air credits for a martian down on his luck?

…

Yeah screw you buster.

So like I was sayin’, Mars ain’t for the weak. You either gotta step up or stomp on somebody to make it…

Me? I’m gonna be ok, I just need one lucky break.

FFF: Patselonkaloman

Really fast one today.  I can’t vouch for quality or grammer.  I’m headed out on vacation.

_________________________________________________________

[Crap! he’s a MK2 not an Mk1] Thought Patselonkaloman.

He watched as the Peacekeeper fired his attitude jets, which now came standard on the mark two, and accelerated in his direction across the weightless space of the vast cargo hold. The slow coast Patselonkaloman had from their initial struggle was not fast enough for him to get to a wall before the cyborg got to him.

[Crap!] There was only one chance, if he timed it just right he could land on the catwalk and Joe Degrady, all 300 pounds of augmentation, would fall the rest of the way to the floor some 50 feet further down.

Patselonkaloman activated the gravity generators from his headgear. But only for a second and then off again. His trajectory changed, now angled down towards the catwalk. Peacekeeper Joe’s course was altered as well but he had much more control than Patselonkaloman, who’s tool was the crudeness of 32 feet per second squared.

“AAHHHHH!” Patselonkaloman yelled in challenge as the Peacekeeper continued his advance.

“You cannot win Mr. Kaloman, surrender.”

“AAAAHHHH!” in answer.

Close now, Patselonkaloman could see the metallic eyes.

Patselonkaloman turned, grabbed the handrail of the catwalk and flicked the gravity generators back on.

Joe Degrady grasped at “Mr. Kaloman” and missed as the hammer of gravity that Patselonkaloman wielded knocked him to the floor of the room with a thud.

“LaTERRRRRRRR!” Patselonkaloman sang as the Peacekeeper rolled onto his back. Even cyborgs feel it when they fall 50 feet to hard steel.

Patselonkaloman ran.

FFF: The Last Prince of Atlantis

Short one today.  I like how this one turned out.
——————————————————–

The end was nigh. The end of all that had come before. The end to the millennia of magnificence that was Atlantis.

And so Selebor the lesser sat in the room of far-seeing in the highest part of his palace, brooding as the flames engulfed the city sprawled below him.

There was nothing left to do to save the empire now. The rebels of the eighth house had succeeded in breaching the walls of the citadel and would soon be scouring the seven palaces for the heads of the princes they sought so voraciously.

One of those heads belonged to Selebor.

He waited, patiently, brooding all the while as he watched his world burn. His eyebrows scrunched down hard over his eyes, his jaw clenched in powerless anger, one hand gripping the arm of his ornate chair, its knuckles white with effort, and the other idly banging the bottom of his long scepter on the marble floor.

He alone remained of his household. The rest he had sent away to his holdings elsewhere, far away from the desecration of their home. He didn’t expect to ever see them again.

And so he sat as the chants grew near and his doom approached.

Brooding.

Friday Flash Fiction: What really matters.

Just a little ditty this week.

---

The cave-in wasn’t the bad part, neither the declining air supply of my suit.  Nor my team members lying dead around me.  Not the pain from my broken leg or the laceration to my arm now sealed with emergency tape.

Some of you might think it would be the hairline crack in my facemask threatening to become a full-blown hole.  Nahhh.

The internal injuries?  I probably won’t have time to worry about those.

Double vision?  nothin’.

Broken ribs? mosquitos.

You see I got this itch in the middle of my back…

Heinlein - All You Zombies

Short story by Heinlein around a time travel paradox.

He had a load on, and his face showed that he despised people more than usual.

Go give it a read.

Friday Flash Fiction: The Red Dress

Becker again.  I think I like this guy.  It’s playing out like a future-noir detective piece.  I like where it’s at and where it’s going.

Things are gonna get hot for Becker, in more ways than one.

Part 1: Jazz PIano and Johnny Freefall

---

By the time the morning came around I knew this was going to be some damn party. I was royally drunk, but so was the crowd. I’d been in a zone now for about three hours. Jammin’ with the band; they were good enough to keep up with me, not many are, but then Johnny has access to good talent.

Finally Johnny Freefall called a break in the action. He snapped his fingers and started walking out but stopped on the top step and held up his hands for quiet.

I couldn’t let him have all the fun and made sure I was the last to become silent, ending in descending crescendo; making the point that Mr. Freidal wasn’t the only power in the room. I had my own domain.

I let the keys rest finally, slowly turned a drunken eye over at the don’t-call-him-a-gangster in the black silk suit and gave him a nice warm smile.

“Thank you Mr. Becker.” Freidal smiled back. Point made.

“Now all you cats are coming back here tonight. Go sleep off your drunk and get some grub and be here at ten tonight. I’m sure we can convince Mr. Becker to be back to entertain us.”

Touché. I guess when it comes to power I play second fiddle. With a smile that showed he knew it, Johnny Freefall left the room with his entourage: couple of goons, couple of “lawyers” and a couple of girls.

“meh,” was all I could say, that bastard’s got it figured, don’t know if I hate him or respect him.

I picked up my Macallan and tossed the last drink back just as cliché’ boy in the dark sunglasses came up, “We’ gots you a nice room wit’ a bed.”

I’m sure you do.

****

The shower felt great. I let the water flow over my neck and peed in the drain. Even the towels were top shelf, thick and rich.

I was slipping into the bathrobe when the door chime sounded with three pleasing tones.

I shuffled, tired and still somewhat drunk, from the marble floor of the bathroom onto the plush carpet of the bedroom and then back onto the marble hallway in front of the suite’s door.

I knew this wasn’t gonna play out good the minute I saw her standing there. Blond, blue eyed and perfect. It was one of Freefall’s dames.

“Becker…”

I put my hand out in front of me, palm out, trying to stop the inevitable, “Listen Lady, I don’t know what you want…”

“Hear me out Becker,” and she barged into my room leaving a trail of perfume loaded with pheromones. The scotch in me blunted her seduction a bit, but my libido still said [hey what’s this then]?

Crap!

I closed the door, trapping the alluring aroma and the bombshell within.

“I need your help.”

“Yeah…yeah…look lady I play music, I don’t help people, I help one person, me.” I headed past her back to the bathroom. I was trying hard to ignore her curves and gaps, enhanced so well by the red dress she wore.

“I think Johnny killed my sister.”

“Crap! Listen…what’s your name?…”

“Mira.”

“Listen Mira,” I grabbed the towel, “I don’t do this sorta thing. You follow me? I DON’T. It’s bad for my health.” I rubbed the last of the drips from my hair, trying to keep my thoughts in order.

“I need to find out what happened to her.” Mira said as she slowly walked towards me. “All you gotta do is go ask my friend MIckie, he’ll know what to do.”

“Why…eh…why don’t you ask him yourself…” Man she moved great, I gotta get another drink. I let the towel fall to the floor.

“Johnny don’t let me talk to nobody.” She said, coming even closer, sidling right up next to me and bringing a hand up to my wet hair.

“Figures.” I broke away and maneuvered around her over to the bar, I needed to add some ammunition in the war between the scotch and her mysteries.

“Look, Mira, I can see you’re in a tight spot, but I kinda like being alive and what you’re askin ain’t gonna help that.”

She looked right at me as I was twisting off the cap of some Glenlivet, “Isn’t there something I can do for you? Something that might help convince you?” She started to slide a strap of her dress off her shoulder.

Dammit!

“Woah lady, we’re not gonna go down that path.” I almost dropped the bottle on the counter as I rushed over to stop her doing what she was gonna do. I grabbed her hand and pulled the strap back up onto the shoulder.

“You ain’t gonna help?” She said. Her shoulder felt really nice: smooth, warm, just the right curve. My hand seemed to want to stay there.

I found myself answering, “Well…uh…Mickie you say,” Crap, why’d I say that.

She looked down at my hand then back up into my eyes, they were glazed from the scotch and my wandering naughty thoughts.

I knew why I said that and she knew it too. She had me then, she reached up and moved my hand back down, with me still holding onto her strap.

“You can’t call him,” she said as down the strap went, “nothin’ electronic.” She slid the other strap down and her dress fell away like the opening of an Opera.

I tried to swallow, it turned into more of a gulp. But there she was exposed, a blond Aphrodite.

“You gotta talk to him face to face.”

“yeah…Mira…I’ll talk to Mickie.”

“I knew you’d help me Becker, I just knew it.” And she nuzzled her nakedness up against me and kissed me luxuriously.

It was everything she’d promised.

Friday Flash Fiction: The Delivery Boy

Just a scene.

---

I hate this damn building.

The elevator stank like you’d expect. Not for the first time I wondered when the last maintenance check had been done on it.

The doors opened up to a half lit hallway, gotta talk to the damn super again about the damn lights. Lazy slob that he is, perfect super for this damn building.

If it weren’t for the cheap rent, I’d be gone in a minute.

As I made my way to the door, dragging my suitcase behind me, Slink heard me and meowed back. How’d I get stuck with a damn cat? I hate cats…ok maybe not Slink. I unconsciously slid the key in and opened the door; home, such as it is.

Slink slid in for a quick pet and then away again, just like a cat, more interested in confirming I existed in her world than in actual contact. “I missed you too.” I said to her raised tail as she walked into the kitchen fully expecting me to follow. Damn cat.

I filled her food and water and then ignored her as she ignored me, we were a perfect match.

Routine, routine, routine. I picked up the remote and flipped on the tv letting the noise fill the background; tickers streaming at the bottom of Fox news. I walked out and pulled my suitcase into the bedroom flopped it on the bed and then stripped and showered.

By the time I came out of the shower sunbeams blinded me through the half closed shades. Sunset or sunrise, it took me a minute to remember, sunset…I think. I just got back to this side of the world an hour ago, I was tired but I needed to unload the stash first.

I opened the case and dumped the clothes on the bed. The data was woven into the fabric of the liner. No microchip, no silicon even, nothing to sniff for, nothing to detect. Carbon nano-tubes, grown with the data as part of their matrix. It was a time consuming process, but it let you hide so much data from so many prying eyes that for the right purpose it made economic sense.

Usually that purpose wasn’t quite legal, I lie to myself and call it a gray area.

I’m just a delivery boy. But a highly trained and valuable delivery boy; there are probably seven or eight people in the world that can do what I do. Friends and enemies all.

I pulled out my knife and cut out the liner, held it up to the sunbeams and  just barely saw the ten threads of different color and weight. I took the square meter of fabric out to the main room of the apartment, Slink was nowhere to be seen. Fox news was still going on about the latest bombing in Bangalore. I carefully laid the fabric sheet on my well lit drafting table.

Got a beer and changed the channel to ESPN.

It only took about an hour to extract the threads. Then another to feed them into the data recapture equipment. Before I hit the hay I had everything recompiled and burnt on two standard 128 gigabyte key fobs.

One for my client and one for me. You know, insurance.

I may be a valuable delivery boy, but I’m also a risk and you gotta look out for number one. My clients all know how discrete I am, but they also know I cover my ass. I gotta. Who’d feed Slink if I got wacked?

Friday Flash Fiction: The Captain

Sorry I missed the last week or two.  Work is coming up on our M2 Milestone and I’ve been dang busy.

I wrote this piece for my brother.  He had this cool idea for how he’d like an opening scene of a movie for his favorite…well I don’t want to spoil it.  It reads a bit better if you don’t know who it is about at the beginning.

---

Rodriguez was prayin’. The other three soldiers thought about it too, they were dead and they knew it.

They could hear German voices over the rain of death, the Nazis were close, and it was only a matter of moments now. All the rest of the platoon had to be dead.

“Dammit Rodriguez, shut the hell up, they’re gonna hear you!” Samuels growled in the direction of Rodriguez who paid him no heed and rocked back and forth slowly in time with his rosary.

Miller was gripping his rifle and stuttering gibberish. He was trying to push himself deeper into the mud walls of the bomb crater.

Bullets whistled and grenades fell nearby, spitting dirt over the four of them huddled in the bottom of the small hole, a refuge from the slaughter. Samuels glanced over at Baker and their eyes locked, the question was there for them to see in the each other, Is this the way it ends?

There seemed so much more left to life than this.

The Nazi voices above them changed. They became alarmed. Shouts became screams.

“Der Kapitan! Der Kapit….”

The mayhem of bullets lessened incrementally, one by one, until there was just one gun lonely firing.

Rat-tat-tat [Only after each “tat” there was a “ting”] Rat-tat-ting!-tat-ting!-tat-ting!-tat-ting!-tat-ting!

Like the bullets were bouncing off something.

The GIs heard the click-click of an empty magazine followed by hysterical shouts of “NEIN! NEIN!” Amidst his shouts they heard a sound that was out of place, like a strong wind through the trees. “SWOOOOSH”

Then a moist sounding crunch followed by silence.

Rodriguez stopped his swaying and praying.

The men in the foxhole didn’t know what to think. Why was it quiet? They could hear their own feet shift in the dirt. Miller’s gibberish could be heard clearly now too, “nojesus, nojesus, nojesus, nojesus, nojesus.” He’d been prayin’ after all. Samuels shook him until he finally shut up.

Revalinski poked his head over the dirt edge. The field was empty of movement.

They crawled out and started wandering around the battlefield. All the Nazi’s were dead. Beaten to death, shot to death, and one with his head almost cut clean off.

How’d this happened? Who’d dunit? They all thought

Wandering dumbstruck through the smoke and desolation and blood and mud until they came upon Williams. He was sitting on what was left of a tree, toppled from the battle.

“I saw him.”

Revalinski spat then spoke for the four of them, “whodja see?”

“I’m not crazy you know…look around you…” They noticed his shaking then.

“Quien?” said Rodriguez he was still freaked out and fell back into Spanish.

“You see what he did right?”

“Yeah, yeah..you ain’t crazy Williams, who dunnit?” Miller had regained his composure.

“The Captain.”

The four from the foxhole looked at each other, Samuels almost laughed, but he looked around him at the death and stayed silent.

The Captain. THE Captian? He must really hate Nazis.

“You mean…?” asked Revalinski.

“Yeah, that’s who I saw. He was one mean lookin sonuvabitch too! Big and fast and angry as hell!”

Williams stood up then and walked towards them, maybe he was crazy, he was still shaking as he went on, “…an’ he’s got this shield that he used to block and hit and throw. He kil’t that one over there with it.” Pointing to the Nazi almost decapitated.

“He went through them like they were wheat. It was easy for him.”

Now with the bullets no longer flying the surviving soldiers looked around at the Germans on the ground with a weird sense of pity. They never stood a chance. Not against him.

Now THIS is a story: Asimov’s "The Last Question"

I’ve read it before and it’s one of those things that just plain sticks with you.  One of those stories that you finish and say, “Why didn’t I write that, it’s brilliant.”

The Last Question

Friday Flash Fiction: Jazz Piano and Johnny Freefall

I really like this one.  I love it when they write themselves.  The words jumped out before I could practically put them in order.

---

The night was dark, but the scotch was good and my piano beckoned.

I find as the evening moves on and the scotch clicks in my brain the notes take on a life of their own. They seem to float in front of me: my brain, my fingers, the piano, the keys, the notes in the air, all weave together in a blanket of smoke.

These midnight sessions are private.

Just me and music.

No audience. Nobody around but me.

I hold a chord and take a sip of the Laphroig.

“Mr. Becker?”

I’m startled by the voice, pausing mid sip, but I hold the chord.

I tip the sip back then calmly put the glass back down and continue to play. Tasty.

“yup.” I answer, still not turning to look. This can’t be good, it’s 2:30.

“Mr. Becker, my employer is…eh…requesting your appearance at a party.”

I start working up into a transition, pounding out a few sequences until I hit a nice little resolution on a major third.

“Sorry pal, I’m a bit busy.”

He finally walks up and leans on the edge of the piano. The dude has sunglasses on, what a cliché’. Then I notice they have a digital readout inside ‘em. He’s fully wired.

“Listen Mr. Becker, my boss ain’t the type to take no fer ‘n answer.”

It was then that I found out he wasn’t alone as two goons grabbed me by the arms.

“All right, all right,” I answer as I lift up my hands and my music ends abruptly, the sad silence filling the room, “will you at least let me put on a change of clothes first?”

“Ya, a’ight.”

****

I’d heard about him of course, who hadn’t. But I never expected to meet him.

We hit about ten telediscs before we finally reached the party. Flitting from London to Dublin to Reykjavik to Boston to Chicago to Deadwood to Spokane, Seattle, Portland, SanFran and LA. Took about ten minutes.

As soon as I flitted in there was a cheer, “Becker!” The crowd was primed for a night of it and more. It was barely 9:30 here in LA.

Some people called him Babyface, but only behind his back, he hated that handle. Most people called him Johnny Freefall but I was gonna call him Mr. Freidal. Why be stupid.

The two goons and cliché’ boy politely led me right to his table in the middle of the vast party. He was sitting surrounded by courtiers like a king. Dressed in a nice, pressed black suit, with a black hat and tie. He had sunglasses (digital) too.

“Mr. Becker, so glad you could join us.” His voice was smooth as business.

“Mr. Friedal, I’m so glad to be here.”

That got a laugh. He chuckled honestly and deep, “I’m sure you are less pleased then you let on. I like truth Mr. Becker, even when it’s hidden in a lie like yours.”

I stood with a half grimace trying to hold my cool, the scotch had left me sober. “Watcha want Mr. Friedal?”

“I like you Becker, you don’t bullshit around. Well as you can see I am throwing this party for a few friends and we all want some music, your name came up and I said that’s our man.” He waved over to a piano, with an accompanying band standing and waiting for me, “Would you be so kind as to show us something…eh…show us what Becker’s got?”

“I’d like a scotch.”

Johnny Freefall looked me up and down, “Darlin’ get this man a scotch,” a waitress hurried off to take care of my order, “Boys, show Mr. Becker to the peeeeano.”

The two goons politely led me once again, this time to the piano. A scotch was laid down as I sat on the bench. Sip. Ahh…Talisker, sharp, peppery, just right to get the party going.

I hit them keys hard and fast to start. The band kicked in after my four bars of intro. We lit that place up like kerosene.

Fuck ‘em, I like to play.